When I feel you love me
It may be misery not to sing at all,
And to go silent through the brimming day;
It may be misery never to be loved,
But deeper griefs than these beset the way.
To sing the perfect song,
And by a half-tone lost the key,
There the potent sorrow, there the grief,
The pale, sad staring of Life’s Tragedy.
To have come near to the perfect love,
Not the hot passion of untempered youth,
But that which lies aside its vanity,
And gives, for thy trusting worship, truth.
This, this indeed is to be accursed,
For if we mortals love, or if we sing,
We count our joys not by what we have,
But by what kept us from that perfect thing.
By Mihran Kalaydjian, CHA
Consultant, Strategist, and Writer
Lips to touch your lips
And my lips near
vôtre by your panties touches you both
And your augmented lips and augmented
Until augmented, your flow of juice began
By the center of your
panties and as I drank through more
And more, by the mutual exchange
The hole was humid and
While the environment to you was moist
your panties developed tropical and hot
Cannot they be yes, ‘apart made
expected by the center of your panties.
Is It Poetry